The Cynthia Chronicles Cynthia: On the Edge pt1
by Evil Carnisa
Summary: A soon-to-be group of '1-SHOTs', as they're called, showing different facets of the life of Cynthia Jonson


Cynthia- On the Edge

by- EvilCarnisa

"Charles, get down here!", Cynthia Jonson called to her husband. "So help me, if we are late to this awards show, it will be your head!" Upstairs, in the master bedroom, Charles was hiding in the closet, sending text messages to his golf buddies. 'Save me!', one read. Packing up the cellular phone, he hurried down the stairs in his pinstriped suit, burgundy shirt, and black tie. Pushing a few strands of his shoulder length blond hair behind his ear, he pulled out a cigar, and got a few deep drags from it before his wife could see.

Emerging from the kitchen, Cynthia, wearing an extra tight white chiffon gown, was on the brink of a nervous breakdown. "The most important night of the year for me", she muttered, pulling her husband from the palatial mansion and into the waiting black limousine, "and I might be late. Just what I need." As they began the half hour drive to the convention center on the outskirts of Pleasantview, Cynthia poured herself one, two, three scotchs from the limos' minibar, and Charles tried his best to keep his wife from falling out the window. "Dearest, the air conditioning is on", he said, pulling her back inside. Looking into her heavily made up face, he could tell she was borderline drunk. Smoking heavily on his cigar, he was pleading the entire ride for the night to be over.

The Jonson Family Convention Center, which was donated by Charles and his wife, could seat almost 20,000 people when fully stocked with chairs. They pulled $300 million of their own personal money, that they made from owning and operationg Jonson Oil, Inc. Tonight, around half of those chairs were going to be filled, for everyone who was anyone was going to attend the 50th annual Businessperson Awards. When the limousine pulled up, and the valet opened the door, the paparazzi attacked Charles and Cynthia, eager to get a few precious shots of the night's most nominated couple. "The awards show will begin in ten minutes", the host announced over the intercom. "Please, take your seats." Third row, seats 1-4 were reserved for the Jonson crew, which also featured the couples' two children, Charles 'Charlie' Jr., age 28, and his sister, Cindy, 26. They embraced their parents, took thier seats, and waited for the show to began. Charles instantly recieved two text messages on his phone, from each of his children. 'Is she drunk?', they both read. He looked over his wife at them and just nodded.

Businessman of the year, Philandthropist of the year, Best Hair (male), Most Earned during One Quarter (male) and Sexiest Man all went to Charles, who stood and gave a small wave. His wife, on the other hand, lost Businesswoman of the year to Georgina Whitehurst, of Whitehurst Steel, but picked up Philandthropist (woman), Sexiest Woman, Most Earned during One Quarter (female), and Most Photographed (woman). Charlie, who owned and operated the Jonson Oil, Inc., located in New York City, recieved Best New Businessman, and Most Photographed (male). Following the two hour award show, which was being broadcasted live all over the world, was a banquet for all who attended.

The Jonson's were seated at the same table as the Whitehursts', the night's other top winners: Holden Whitehurst, the patriarch of the family, his wife, Georgina, and their son, Hayden, the heir to the Whitehurst fortune and company. "Why Cynthia", Georgina smiled, with a forced smile on her face, "I see you recieved the 'Sexiest Woman' award. I would've won, but I was too busy strengthening my company, so I could win 'Businesswoman of the Year." With an equally forced smile, Cynthia beamed, "Congratulations! I would've won, but I was too busy earning more money than you over the course of one quarter. Sorry." The night went on like that, the two women using false compliments to put down one another. Holden and Charles, on the other hand, were good friends, and decided years ago that it was better to just let their wives squabble between themselves. "So Holden", Charles began, signalling a waiter for another glass of wine, "There's a golf game tomorrow with Cherry, Bruenstead, and Stein tomorrow; you want in?" Thomas Cherry, James Breunstead, and Mortimer Stein all went to college with Charles, Holden, Cynthia and Georgina. Those three put the little money they made from tutoring others in school together, and created the third most successful industrial construction company in the world. All five guys- including Cynthia and Georgina- had been friends ever since. "Well, I do have alot of affairs to look after tomorrow", he began, while looking at his PDA/cell phone, "but if it means a round of golf with my college buddies, this stuff can wait!"

Charlie got on his cell phone, and told his office he would be prolonging his stay at his parents' home, while Cindy warded off Hayden's many advances. "I have a yacht in the Bahamas", he mused, while trying to sneak a light kiss. "I'd love to show you it sometime." "Hayden, we've been over this", she said, drawing away from his puckered lips. "I have no interest in dating a pompous trust fund baby such as yourself." "You tell him, darling!", Cynthia genuinely smiled, before turning an I'm-better-than-you eye at Georgina. "You see, Georgina? My daughter doesn't want your spoiled son's money, because her mother raised her better than that." Shocked, the Whitehurst matriarch shot back, "My child is spoiled? Your daughter doesn't even work in the family business!" "She is working to be an actress, where she'll be making four times the amount of money you plan to leave your jobless son!" Standing up, Georgina yelled, "Well! I have never been insulted by a more boorish alcoholic in all my life!" "And that's our cue, that this little get together is over", Holden said, trying to move his wife towards the door. Instantly, Charlie hung up his phone, and helped his sister get away from the table. "How dare you!", Cynthia screamed, slapping Georgina Whitehurst clear across the face, causing her to collapse into the now-empty table. "And that's _my_ cue to leave. See you at 8, Holden!", Charles said, carrying his wife to the limousine. "Eight it is!", called an equally surprised Holden, who was also carrying his wife off. "Nothing like a night out with friends and family", Charlie muttered, causing his little sister to stifle a laugh.

"I am not an alcoholic!", Cynthia slurred, as soon as everyone was inside the limousine. "Charlie, pour Mommy another scotch." After years of starting the whole 'alcoholic' conversation, the Jonson family found it alot easier to just ignore the problem, and just let Cynthia, be Cynthia: Charles smoked another of his cigars while surfing the web with his laptop; Cindy talked on her cell phone, texted on her other phone, and instant messaged anyone who wasn't on the telephone from her laptop; and inbetween pouring his mother drinks, Charlie talked business with his friends back in New York. When the limo dropped them off in front of Jonson Manor, Charlie helped his father carry his intoxicated mother upstairs to her bedroom, then went into his own room. Cindy went into the library, and began surfing the web, while Charles snuck away into the vast kitchen. With shaking hands, he reached under the sink, and pulled out a small medicine container. Taking out two pills, he swallowed them, then went up for bed.

Cynthia was already undressed, and in the tub, while the housekeeper, Helga, drew the water. "Charles, we are so much better than Holden and Georgina Whitehurst; I do not understand why we are still friends with them", she said, as he came and sat beside the tub. Kissing her hand, he answered, "I'm aware of that, dear, but we have been friends with them for almost 30 years. The Whitehursts, Cherry, Bruenstead, and Stein, are the only people who aren't deathly afraid of you. They actually enjoy being around you. Them, your parents, my parents, and Aurora, that is." At the mere mention of her sister's name, Cynthia snatched her hand from her Charles', and grew suspicious. "You only mention my sister when she is about to come for a visit." "Dearest, she's shooting a film in town, and-" "-And you figure, just because she's family, she can just come stay in my house, without consulting me whatsoever." Standing, Charles loosed his tie and remarked, "Our house, Cynthia. Just because you two have your extreme differences, does not mean she isn't family. Now, she is staying here, end of discussion." As he left the bathroom, he heard, "You know where you're sleeping now, right?", behind him, and walked out of the bedroom, and down to the other wing of the enormous house.

With the family situated in the east wing of the house, the west wing was turned into each of the members 'junk areas': in his junk room, Charlie had old magazines, clothes, and computer parts; Cindy had in her junk room, clothes, old cell phones, and shoes; Cynthia, who had the biggest junk room, turned hers into a giant closet, with every type of clothing, shoe, coat, and accesory imaginable. Charlie, on the other hand, turned his room into a bunker, for when his wife grew angry with him- he had a small bar, a bed, flat screen TV, and a large armchair in it. Fluffing his pillows, he turned over on the small bed, and went fast asleep. With her bath completed, a still-tipsy Cynthia put on her pink silk nightgown, then collapsed on the king-sized bed, facedown. Moments later, snoring could be heard from the bedroom.

At 7:00 the next morning, all the alarms went off in every bedroom. Thus, the Jonson family began their morning routine:

Charlie rose, went into his bathroom, took a quick shower, then went downstairs for breakfast.

Cindy checked her many text messages she recieved during the night, then hopped in the shower in her bedroom, before joining her brother downstairs for breakfast.

Charlie crept softly on the carpeted hallway floor, past his sons' and daughters' bedrooms, and stopped in front of his own master bedroom. Very quietly, he snuck past a still-sleeping Cynthia, and hopped in the shower. The hot water felt good on his body, and he stood under the water for a good ten minutes before loud knocking on the bathroom door shook him from his daydreams. "Charles, I need to get in there!", his wife hollered, her voice cracking from just waking up. Turning off the water and wrapping a towel around his waist, he moved past his unkept wife, and into the closet. The master bedroom's closet was fifteen feet by fifteen feet, with three center islands, all weighed down by Cynthia's clothes. A small door in the back of it led into a bare secret room, which housed Charles' many suits and casual clothing. Selecting a nice pair of designer shorts, and a salmon polo shirt, he finished his look off with $1500 sunglasses, a Rolex, and boat shoes.

Emerging from his closet into his Cynthia's he found his wife wearing a beige pantsuit, diamonds the size of jawbreakers, and a gemstone encrusted headband pulling her platinum blond hair from her face. "Oh good, you're dressed", she remarked, heading to her vanity dresser. "OK, we have ten minutes before we have to get out of here; I am going to fix my face, then come down for breakfast." Walking past his wife, Charles laughed, "Not too much paint today, Cynthia; I don't want you to melt." Downstairs, Charles prepaired a quick breakfast of toast and orange juice for his family, and went into his study for a morning cigar. Cindy, in her yellow sundress and flip flops, was telling her equally wealthy friend Janine Simpson about all the fun they would have at the country club that day. "...and I figure we'll get into the pool first, then maybe hit the spa, and then lunch with the family later on", she prattled on. Charlie, who was checking the stocks in the morning paper, was chewing on his cigar when his mother entered the kitchen. Taking it from his mouth, she scolded, "Charlie, how many times have I told you not to smoke in my kitchen? I might not know how to cook in it, but I refuse to have Helga work in a smoke-filled environment." Stepping out of the room, and re-entering with Charles in hand, she grabbed her two children, and led them into their four car garage. Each family member had their own space: Charles, being the more classy-over-flashy type of guy, had a simple champagne colored Rolls Royce Phantom; Cynthia, being very materialistic, drove a burgundy Aston Martin convertable; not really into automobiles, being a girly-girl, Cindy had a simple pink Mercedes convertable; and Charlie, who loved cars as much as he loved money, drove a jet black Lamborghini Diablo.

Climbing into Charles' car, his wife and children instantly pulled out the trays mounted into the dashboard and behind the front seats, and went to furiously typing on their laptops. Rolling his eyes with a smile, Charles pulled out of the garage, drove through the neighborhood, which was lined with equally large mansions on either side of the street, and hopped onto the highway. Pleasant Gardens Country Club was located on the far outskirts of the city. Paid for through the very expensive club dues, the grounds boasted four restaurants, two spa areas, six swimming pools, ten hot tubs, twenty tennis courts, a recreational building, a theatre, fishing lake, resort, and personal landing strip, all on 400 acres of land. Founded four years ago, the current basic dues package was $20,000 for a family of four, and was severely limited in activities. The Jonsons, on the other hand, were platinum members, and paid in excess of $100,000 yearly- per person. "Holden, it's Charles", he said, into his carphones' reciever. "We will be there in ten minutes, and will meet you in the parking lot."

Pulling the large land yacht into one of the many parking spaces, the Jonsons immediately spotted the Whitehursts, along with Cherry, Bruenstead, and Stein. After the pleasantries were over with, Cynthia and Georgina, who wore golfing shorts and a white polo shirt, went to the one of the many bars. Cindy found her friend Janine, and went off with her, leaving the men to a rousing game of golf.

In the main building, to the left was the bar that Cynthia and Georgina were stationed at. "About last night, Cynthia", Georgina began, playing with her soda. "I am sorry about the whole 'alcoholic' thing. It's just-" "No need to apologize", Cynthia cut her off, while downing a scotch in one gulp. "I am aware that my alcoholism gets the better of me at times. I really do wonder though, why you and your husband continue being Charles and my friend. And do not say, it's because you think your Hayden has a chance with my Cindy; that is _so_ not going to happen." "Cynthia, I really have nothing against you. I've known you since college, and I know that your whole...craziness... it's not an act. When you really think about it, my family and Cherry, Bruenstead, and Stein, are the only people who can put up with your arrogance for long periods of time. Now, if you want to look good at the upcoming charity ball, I suggest you take my advice, and listen." With a look of genuine suspicion in her eyes, Cynthia asked, "And how much is this 'advice', as you so call it, going to cost me, exactly?" "Well, seeing as we're friends and all...$100 million." Cynthia nearly fell from her chair, and almost spit out her drink. "Have you lost your mind? Where am I going to get $100 million in twenty seconds? And on top of all that, why would I pay YOU $100 million for advice anyways? This city loves me! Now, if we are finished, here..." She proceded to grab her drink and walk away, but Georgina wasn't finished with her yet. "Well then, you wouldn't mind giving me the $100 million that your husband owes my husband, then?" "Why would my husband borrow money from the likes of you?" "Well, when _your_ villa burned down last year in Italy, he had to pay lots of hush-hush money, so word wouldn't get out that his wife, in an alcohol-fueled incident, burned down not only her own house, but the entire seaboard. Holden graciously paid it out, but now I am ready to collect." Whirling around, Cynthia couldn't even believe the words that were coming from her so-called friends' mouth. "I will not pay you for somthing that was a gift! How dare you! And for your information, your husband is going bankrupt, and we just gave him double that to keep his company last month! So, before you come to me with your claims of help, just know that I know that you are broke, and this is most likely your last year with the country club." Walking out, Cynthia was satisfied knowing that she just jumpstarted a heart attack in the only female friend that she had, a heart attack that had been trying to form for quiet some time now.

Holden, Charles, and the rest of their party ran to Georgina's side who was having trouble catching her breath, and standing. As if on cue, Cynthia ran in from the restroom, feigning surprise. "My goodness! I left to use the restroom just a moment ago, and I return to find my best friend having a heart attack? I am in so much shock, I must leave the room!" She used this excuse to walk out to the parking lot, and make a private call. Moments later, she walked back inside as they were carrying Georgina off on a stretcher, with a tall, dark haired man on her arm. "Charles, good to see you", Jackson LaGrange smiled, extending a hand. "Jackson, you came to ruin my family outings, as always", he responded, shaking his hand.

Jackson LaGrange and Charles Jonson have been rivals since high school, ever since they were both trying to be Cynthia's main squeeze. When Charles came out on top, Jackson had been bitter ever since. It also didn't help that his own oil company, LaGrange Fuels, was always coming in second behind Jonson Oil, Inc. "Well, it looks like the whole family is here, minus your little girl there, Charles." "She's off with the Simpson girl, roaming the grounds, most likely buying up anything and everything that catches her eye. I already know, she's going to bleed me dry", Charles joked, lighting a cigar, before passing the box around to his wife and Jackson. "That is, if my wife doesn't do it first." "Charles, don't be a neanderthal; any money that I spend, I have just cause to do so." The small group shared a small chuckle, before Charles and Jackson, minus Charlie, went back to the other men, who the left playing golf. Once Cynthia had retreated to one of the boutiques around the corner, Jackson mumbled under his breath, in barely a whisper, "Have you told your wife yet?" "There is no need to; the doctor's have told me, its gone into remission." "They told you that same mumbo-jumbo ten years ago." "I'm fine, Jackson, and lets' not speak of this again."

"Ah, Mrs. Jonson, wonderful to see you again", Ophelia, the boutique owner, said, when Cynthia entered. "With the fall season right around the corner, I'm sure you're here to look over our selection." Signalling two of her employees, Ophelia escorted Cynthia to the seating area, and had the workers bring out some racks, stuffed with clothing. "Now, the hot look from Paris this year", she continued, pulling over a certain clothing rack, "is fur this year. In case you hadn't noticed, it has been getting a tad chilly this week, making for an extremely snowy winter. Everyone's eye is on the chinchilla, not only for its ultrasoft fur, but the natural beauty the fur itself exudes. She went on to remove three fur coats, two black, one white, from the rack, and laid them down on the coffee table. As she explained the entire fall line, her employees also pulled out a few dinner gowns, little black dresses, and some casual workwear as well. "Great. I'll take them all", Cynthia smiled, heading towards the register. From the other side of the store, a voice rang out, stopping her in her tracks. "Why, is that Cynthia Jonson, I see?" She whirled around to see none other than Olympia Winters headed toward her. "It is you! Were going to just leave without saying hello to me?" "That was the plan", Cynthia seethed.

Ever since elementary school, Olympia Winters had been trying to out-do Cynthia in everything: making the cheerleading team, winning class president, anything to get under her skin. Sadly to say, every contest they entered, she won, and Cynthia would put on a large fake smile, tell her congratulations, then use her keys to scratch up her car. "Girls, cut the crap", Ophelia, a middle-aged woman who had known them since college snapped. "Now, Mrs. Jonson, your grand total for today is...$45,295.59, will that be cash or charge?" "Now Ms. Ophelia", Olympia began, putting her hands on her hips, "I seriously doubt, that she has that kind of cash on hand." "Went by the ATM yesterday morning", Cynthia cut in pulling a large wad of $100 bills from her purse. "Hmm, I'm six grand short. Let me run out to the ATM real quickly, and I will be right back." Once she had left the store, Olympia fumed to the boutique owner. "Little Miss Cynthia thinks she is so hot. What about me? When will it be my turn to shine, when?" She quickly silenced herself once Cynthia reentered. "Olympia, please tell me that you weren't giving that melodramatic speech about when it will be 'your turn', again", Cynthia said, paying off her clothing. "It's getting very old", and with a small wave, she left the store, telling Ophelia to have to clothes sent to her house immediately.

Almost instantly, she recieved a text message from Olympia that read, 'so does your husband tell you any and everything?'. Immediately, Cynthia texted back, 'of course! Unlike you, I am happily married.' 'Yea, then why has he been to see his doctor everyday for three weeks straight then?' 'He said he had a cold, thank you very much.' 'I didn't know cancer doctors treated colds.' At the last comment, Cynthia actually ran off to the links, where her husband was in the middle of his turn. "Cynthia, can we talk about this after my turn?", he asked, without looking up from his club. "Charles, would you tell me if you were dying?", she asked outright, causing him to slice the ball, sending it straight into the trees. "Whatever are you going on about, dear?", he asked, without showing any emotion. "You've been going to a cancer doctor all this time, and you weren't going to tell me?", Mrs. Jonson continued, waving the rest of the party on to the next hole. "Charles, look me in my face and tell me, that you are OK." Tossing his club into the brush, he grabbed her shoulders tightly, looked her directly in the eyes and said, "Dammit, Cynthia, I really did not want to talk about this here, but if you want to, fine; I have rectal cancer, and I've had it for almost twenty years now. I've been treating it with antibiotics, and it slips into remission from time to time, but now it's back, and worse than ever. I really, really did not want to bore you with my boring life, but there it is." "So, when did you think you would tell me, Charles? When you were on your deathbed, gasping for air? That isn't fair! Charles, I am your wife! you should tell me about anything that ails you, yet you just shut me out, and now the whole city knows! I can't believe you would do that!" "Yea, well get used to it, baby. From now on, things are going to be different around here: no more shopping sprees, and trips around the world, none of it. I figure instead of adding on to the company, I might sell it, and donate a large portion of the money charity, and save somthing for us to retire on."

Yanking away from him, Cynthia raised an eyebrow and gasped, "You unimaginable bastard. How dare you even think such a thing! I am going to take my money, and I am going home, packing up your belongings, and you can get out of my house, and out of my life." With that, she hopped in the car, and sped all the way back to the mansion. "That's my wife", Charles said to himself, and told his kids they would be taking a cab home.

When they walked inside the foyer an hour later, Cynthia was waiting with a smile on her face, and her hands behind her back. "Children, welcome home!", she beamed, eyeing her husband the entire time. "I've given Helga the evening off, so I thought we'd have dinner at Ruby's tonight. Your father and I need to talk, so why don't you go on ahead?" Wondering what that was all about, their children went out to the garage, and it wasn't long before Charlie's Lamborghini could be heard racing down the driveway. "So Charles", Cynthia began, pacing the foyer, all the while not revealing what was behind her back, "I just find out that not only does my husband have cancer, but has had it for twenty years, and is going to sell the company that we built from the ground up. How do you think I feel right now?" "Cynthia, no matter how you feel, I said that I'm selling the company, so it doesn't mat-" "How do you think I feel?", Cynthia cut him off, her words ringing through the halls. Closing the front door, Charles took a step forward and guessed, "I don't know, angry, Cynthia? I have cancer, but you're angry at me." "You're damn right I am!", she yelled, then swung the mystery item, a golf club towards her husband's head. "I gave you almost thirty years of my life, Charles", she continued, smashing their wedding picture, that hung on one wall, "thirty long, hard years, and you're just now telling me, that you're dying?" She took out the coffee table, and the crystal chandelier next. "Cynthia, calm down!", Charles yelled, trying his best not to get hit. "I didn't want to tell you, because I figured you'd react this way." "Charles, as your wife, I should know about everything in your life, but if you can't trust me with something as big as cancer, yet everyone else knows, then I don't think I can be the Mrs. Jonson that you want anymore." Letting the golf club fall from her hands, she went to the garage, got into her car, and sped to Ruby's.

By the time Charles changed into a simple black Armani suit with red shirt, and reached Ruby's his wife was already there, patiently waiting for him. His children had matching concerned looks on their faces. When Charles finally sat down, Cynthia began the little speech that she had prepared. "Children, you know that mommy loves you, but unfortunately, your father doesn't anymore." "Oh, Cynthia, that is a lie, and you know it." "Let me rephrase that then; your father doesn't love your mother enough to tell me that he's dying." Cindy's head almost hit the table, she was so floored. "Daddy, you're dying?", she asked, tears welling up in her eyes, while Charlie just sat quietly with a hard look in his eyes. "Well, the cancer has been in my body for going on thirty years now, and my medications have just been prolonging the inevitable, so yes, in a way, I'm dying." "I think that, since your father feels that he can tell his friends, even that horrible Olympia Winters knows! even though everyone else but his wife and children know this, I feel that it would be in my family's best interest to get a divorce, Charles." Charlie actually got up from his seat, and left. Cindy, completely bawling now, followed her brother out. "A divorce, Cynthia? Are you crazy?", Charles whispered, trying to avoid making more of a scene, than his daughter already had. "Do you know what that will do to our company?" Wiping her mouth, Cynthia whispered, "It will do nothing to our company. Just because I'm leaving you, doesn't mean that I am leaving my position at work. I've already contacted my sister, and told her not to come, and my divorce lawyer will be arriving in the morning. I suggest you call one as well, and I am sure you know where you're sleeping tonight." Placing her napkin on the table, Cynthia left an astonished Charles sitting there, alone.

Nobody rested easy that night: Cindy spent the evening crying herself to sleep, only to wake abruptly, and start all over again; Charles, spent the night on the phone with his lawyer, trying to find some way out of it; Charlie didn't even come home, and could not be reached on his cell phone. Cynthia, on the other hand, was looking through the clothes that were dropped off shortly after dinner.

At ten in the morning, Charles, dressed in sleeping shorts and his robe, emerged from his room on the opposite wing of the mansion, to meet his lawyer in the dining room. Already present, his soon-to-be-ex wife was dressed in a flowing burgundy chiffon gown, with rubies the size of a child's fist on. Her lawyer, who just so happened to be Mark Greenburg, the family lawyer, gave an awkward to Charles. "So sorry to see you on such sad conditions, sir", he said. James Turlington, lawyer to the stars, sat next to Charles, across from Cynthia and Mark. "Before we begin", Charles said, taking a cup of coffee from the tray Helga produced, "Can I say one thing? Cynthia, please, reconsider." "No. Let's begin", she said, and looked at the manilla folder than Mark held.

Standing, and Mark read, "Okay, this is pretty open-and-shut, here: Mrs. Jonson retains the use of her name and position at the couple's company, Jonson Oil, Inc., and wants her personal vehicle, an Aston Martin convertable, burgundy, half of Mr. Jonson's yearly salary, and their current residence, 2100 Jonson Way, the penthouse in New York, and the castle in France. Any objections, James?" After a few words were explained between the lawyer and his client, he responded, "No to the current residence, and no to the salary. I would like to counter, and ask about the contents in a safety deposit box at Pleasantview Bank, and another account, number 54616343224." "That safety deposit box contains", Mark said, looking through his folder, "Mrs. Jonson's family heirlooms, in excess of a baseball-sized emerald, the deed to her parent's flat in Germany, and her wedding jewelry, which comes to... $3.45 million in diamonds. About account number 54616343224, that holds exactly $684 million, and is not a part of the deal." Charles sat straight up. "Where exactly did nearly 3/4 of a billion dollars come from, Cynthia?" "They are my earnings from the company over the course of twenty years, Charles. I invested in any and everything my hear desired, and it paid out very well", she responded. "I want half of that, James", Charles said quickly, glaring over at his wife. "Two can play this game, Cynthia." "Unfortunately, two can't play this game, Charles", Cynthia smiled, refilling her coffee cup. "You should have read the contents of our prenup. It clearly states that if you try and touch any money that I personally made during the course of our marriage, you must pay me a billion and a half, yearly, until one of us dies. Why do you think I spent so much time writing it up? You can't win here, Charles, so just take the deal I'm granting you, and call it quits." "I want my house then, Cynthia. Since you are so bent on taking everything that I have created, I atleast want the decency to live in my own house." "Fine. He can have the house, his salary, and everthing else is mine", she told both lawyers. "As of now, I am no longer tethered to you, Charles Jonson." "Cynthia, be reasonable", he begged, actually falling to his knees in anguish. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but please do not leave me." Standing, and escorting the lawyers to the door, she quietly said, "I'll be back for my things. See you at work."

Most people, after having their property and assets divided up in a divorce, would not leave their house for anything for days on end. Charles Jonson, wasn't one of those people. Picking himself up off the floor, he went into his bedroom to shower, to find all of his wive's clothing on racks, and her jewelry packed neatly in boxes. Charles showered, dressed in a beige suit, took his pills from under the sink, and was on his way. Cindy left him a voicemail on his cell, saying that Charlie and her had taken up residence in a hotel, and that they were fine. Parking next to his wife in front of Jonson Oil, Inc., Charles was expecting the worse when he rode the elevator up to the 60th floor, where Cynthia's office resided. Instead, when he stepped off the elevator, everyone was business as usual: Cynthia's receptionist was dilligently working, her accountants were working on a new model in the hall to present to her, nothing was out of place. Swinging open the double doors that led to her office, she approached him with a manilla folder, to which he thought was more divorce demands. "The accounts want to talk about this coming quarter's budget, up in your office", she said, as if the mornings events never happened.

They took the stairs to the 61st floor, where Charles' office was located. During the meeting, Cynthia never let on that she and Charles were having any sort of problem, let alone that they were divorced. She acted the same way as always, sitting right beside him, fixing his hair or his tie, and pouring herself somthing to drink from his wet bar. Finally, they approved the budget, and once everyone had left, he decided to get to the bottom of this. "What was that back there?", he asked, moving around and sitting behind his large desk. "You were acting like your normal self, like we aren't divorced or anything." Sitting on the edge, and sipping from her glass, she responded, "Charles, if this company knew what we were going through, nothing would get done, and eveyone would fear that their job would be coming to an end, which you plan to do, anyways." Lighting a cigar, Charles was quiet for awhile. "Cynthia, I'm not selling the company. I just told you that, out of anger." She raised an eyebrow, then lowered it. "I see. Well, Mr. Jonson, I will be going out shortly." "To where?" "I'm not your wife anymore, Charles, so I don't have to tell you, but since you care so much all of a sudden, I'm buying a house, and I'm doing the walkthrough today."

"Cynthia, the only house that you would actually want to live in, besides our own, is the old Richardson castle on the corners of Smythe, Jemson, Colette, and Morris Avenue", Charles said, matter-of-factly. "Exactly; old lady Richardson just died last week, and I'm the only bidder on her house." Charles was shocked. "Do you know how much maintenance that place needs? It'll cost you a fortune." "Correction: it'll cost _you_ a fortune. I still retain my expense account, Charles, and there is more than enough money in it for all my repairs, and my new furniture. Now, you can be a good little trooper like the children, and come see the house with me, or you can be a stick in the mud, and not go at all. Plus, there's some things you need to sign as well." "What kind of things?" "I updated my will last night, and you have to sign off that you were one of the people present to its' notorization. I suggest you do the same. Oh, look at the time; so, are you coming with me or not?" "Fine", Charles mumbled, and followed his ex-wife out of the building.

Richardson Castle sat on one city block, on fifty acres of land, and a ten foot high brick fence surrounding the perimeter. By the time Charles and his wife pulled up in their company limousine, Cindy and Charlie were already waiting. "Now, children", Cynthia began, adjusting her dress, "This is where I will be living at for now. I suggest you go pick out your rooms now, so there aren't any fights later." "What makes you think they won't want to live with me, Cynthia?", Charles asked, before their kids could move. "How do you know that they don't want to stay in our home?" "I know this, because these rooms that they're picking is for when they come visit; Charlie is going back to New York tonight, and Cindy is going to stay with my sister until you and I can settle this whole mess out." "This while mess can be settled, if you just stop trying to divorce me." "We wouldn't even be in this mess if you would just be open with me about your health. So there." Finally, the realtor emerged from the gates of the castle. "Ah, Mrs. Jonson, I am-" "Ms. Jonson, sorry. I am glad you were interested in this house, with it needing so much upkeep and what not. Who are these charming people?", Martha Tifton, the realtor that sold business and residential properties, asked. "Well", Cynthia began, going from person to person, "This is my son, Charlie, my lovely daughter, Cindy, and this just my ex husband; he doesn't have a name." "It's Charles", he said, glaring at Cynthia. "Now, Mrs. Tifton, may we get on with this tour, before I decide to just leave?" "Very well", she said, leading the way up the cobblestone driveway. "This house has 16 bedrooms, all which feature full bathrooms. There's a courtyard, three verandas, and a swimming pool out back, with a fully working jacuzzi. The kitchen has been recently remodled, and so has the master bathroom. While we process your purchase, feel free to look around."

The children went to explore the house, giving Charles some alone time with his ex-wife. "So, it appears you've moved on", he finally said. "I mean, it's funny, how you divorce me over my health, whereas I didn't get mad when I found out you've saved almost 3/4 of a billion dollars. Funny, itsn't it?" "Charles, you couldn't get mad, because that was my money in the first place. We built this marriage on love, and trust, and then I find out for almost 1/3 of it, you've had cancer. I want to know, how do you expect me to trust you after that?" When he said nothing, she left him, heading out to the courtyard. Angry, he got inside of his car, and went home.

The next few weeks for the former Jonson couple went in very different directions:

Charles, arriving home to his empty house, usually had a light dinner, and went straight to bed, so overcome with grief, he couldn't do anything more. He'd wake up the next morning, alone, shower, get dressed, and head to work, repeating the cycle, day in, day out.

Cynthia, on the other hand, had flown in a very expensive fashion designer from Paris, to decorate her new abode. The paparazzi were nearly eating her up, but a rumor began circulating that she herself had called them.

After a month of being divorced, Charles recieved an invitation in the mail, to attend Cynthia's official housewarming party. Putting on a fresh suit, taking his two pills from underneath the sink, and pulling his hair into a ponytail, he called the family limousine, and hurried off. The street was blocked off from the public, unless you had an invitation. Paparazzi was standing against the gates, photographing any and everyone that entered the castle. When his limo pulled up, a manservant opened the door, crossed his name off the list, then pointed towards the crowd of people entering, telling Charles to follow them. As he arrived at the door, a photographer was taking pictures of all the guests with Cynthia, as they entered. When it was Charles' turn, she put on a big phoney smile, and muttered, "You had better mind your manners, Charles. This is a very big night for me, plus, there's a big surprise." Once the picture was taken, Charles headed into the freshly decorated foyer, where the city's wealthiest people were all gathered. Taking a wine glass from a passing server's tray, he mingled with his financial peers, all the while waiting to see what the big surprise was.

Finally, the music was turned off, and the lights dimmed, til only one spotlight was on, engulfing Cynthia, making her brugundy sequined dress through shimmering shadows all over the crowd. "Ladies and gentleman", she began, turning to try and see everyone, "I am very happy that you've all joined me tonight, at my housewarming party. Now, in case anyone has been wondering, and I know you have, I would like to put to bed the rumors of Charles and I being seperated. We are divorced." The crowd began murming, but hushed when Cynthia continued. "My big news, on the other hand, is that I am engaged to local billionaire, Carlos Campanella!" Instantly, a middle aged man, with salt and pepper hair, emerged from the crowd, giving Cynthia a peck on the cheek. Angry, Charles went ducked out into the lavish kitchen, and poured himself a scotch from the ample bar. "Mr. Jonson", Carrie Hillard, his assistant, called, rather surprised, "I'm rather surprised to see you here." "I could say the same to you as well, Carrie." "It's Mrs. Jonson; she's trying to get me to leave you, and work as her assistant, but that won't happen. I could never leave you." Charles swore to himself, there was a bit of a flirtatious undertone in that last sentence, but didn't care. Taking another sip of his scotch, he came out and asked, "How would you feel about dancing with me?" "Why not", she responded, and the two walked hand in hand out to the back porch, which was being used as a dance floor. A waltz was strummed up, and the guests paired themselves accordingly, and began to dance.

Grabbing her tightly around the waist, Charles, an expert dancer, swept Carrie across the floor, much to everyone's enjoyment, except his ex-wife. Furious, she walked over, and pulled the two apart. "Charles, what do you think you're doing, dancing with your secretary?", she fumed, glaring at Carrie, who just blushed. "Cynthia, we aren't married anymore, and besides, it's just a little dance. It's not like she's coming back to my place after this whole thing is over."

Locked in full embrace, Charles and Carrie barely stopped kissing long enough for him to unlock the front door of his mansion. "This feels so wrong", he said, pulling off his coat. "Don't think", Carrie breathed, following him to the master bedroom. The next morning, there wasn't the usual awkward moment, where everyone looks guilty, and regrets are made. Since both people knew that this relationship was a private matter, Carrie was full aware to pack up her things, and leave before sunrise, and both knew not to make a mention of it to anyone. Helga got up and took Carrie home, and before she could get one hundred yards away, the front door of the mansion swung open, revealing Cynthia, Carlos, and three police officers. "Okay, take everything that's on these lists", she said, overseeing everything. Taking the list in one hand, and pushing their collection carts with the other, the men in blue started taking things from the walls, shelves, and rooms. Among the more expensive things that were taken, Cynthia got their wedding china, first edition novels, countless jewelry, and the persian rugs. Once the listed things were taken, she had the officers start carrying out her tons of clothes that were left, hat box by hat box, crate by heavy crate, and before they knew it, the moving truck that they brought over was full. "Well, Charles", Cynthia said, lighting one of the cigars she recieved in the divorce, "we had a good ride. I will see you at work."

Over the course of the next six months, Charles and Carrie grew very close, while Cynthia had her second dream wedding. Everyone who was anyone attended, excluding Charles and his secretary, who took a weekend vacation to Las Vegas. On an average Tuesday morning, Charles woke up, called his lawyer, then went for his morning shower. Catching a glimpse of himself before he hopped in, he noticed his hair was thinning heavily on top. "I'll call my doctor later on", he mumbled, while deciding that today would be a 'hat' day for him. Carrie had been hinting on the idea of moving in together for a few days now, but Charles couldn't bring himself to comitting to it, since he knew his ex-wife would go through the roof. He did, however, compromise, and bought them a brownstone in the city.

Everyday at work, Cynthia could always be seen in her office, going about her business, with her head in reports of various kinds. She could often be seen chewing on the end of her gemstone encrusted cigarette holder, a dim flame producing a thin line of smoke from the tip. "Carrie, please ask Mrs. Campanella if she could have a word in my office", he spoke into the intercom on his desk. "Righ away, sir", was the reply, and less than five minutes later, his ex-wife, dressed in a burgundy pantsuit, as usual, strolled inside, sitting on the loveseat located in front of the enormous fireplace. "You wanted to see me, Charles?", she asked, knocking her cigarette ashes into a marble ashtray. Bringing up a folder from one of his desk drawers, Charles thumbed through it for a moment, closed it, and asked, "Cynthia, what do you know of Carlos' financial status? Now, before you get offended, I ask because, well, you married a broke man." Rising, Cynthia started, "Impossible! Carlos has over two billion, and his company is worth far more than that. Let me see that folder." Sure enough, the folder confirmed that Carlos borrowed the initial sum to start his brokerage, and thus, adding up back taxes, and interest, and the initial death threat he made to the company, he had less than a million to his name. Calling him up, Charles left the room to give them privacy, but when a string of curse words, and a bawling Cynthia erupted from his office, Charles could only guess what Cynthia already knew: that glamourous storybook marriage was over.

Knowing what it was like to lose his wife, Charles picked up his cell phone, and called Carlos himself. "Carlos, I can only guess that your marriage has ended, just like mine. Just answer me one question, and I am begging you to tell me that the answer is 'no': did you sign a prenup?" "Unfortunately, I did. Charles, I just couldn't tell her that I was bankrupt. I wanted to spare her feelings." "Yea, I tried the same thing, and that is what ended my marriage. I'm not really sure how she'll cope now, but I feel that if you have anything- property, vehicles, anything- that you don't want her to get her hands on, you had better get to signing it over to someone else, or hiding it. Would you believe she would've gotten my house, if I wouldn't have begged her for it? Speaking frome experience, I can honestly say, that Cynthia will do anything, as long as she can make a profit off of it. Well, I gotta go! Good luck!"

When Charles got to his mansion, he saw Cynthia's car parked in the driveway. Suspicious, he parked around the side of the house, and entered through the back door. Sounds from the study reeled him in, and he found his ex-wife in the wall safe. "Oh, Charles", she said, still chest deep into it, "I just wanted to come by and look through some forms that I had left behind. Yes, my marriage is over, and no, I am not a complete wreck. Here, put this on the desk, would you?" She passed him a solid gold brick, which made a thud as he lightly sat it down. "Okay, let me give you the lowdown of what's going on; the company is being investigated." Charles fell back onto the small sofa behind him. "What do you mean, investigated?" "Our genius accountants had been stealing money from us, buying black market government secrets, then selling them to conflicted overseas countries. So, since it's our company, the government claims that we had knowledge of this, and, I hear they're talking about cleaning us out." Charles was in shock. Running to the kitchen, he took his little blue pills, took some aspirin, then poured his ex a scotch from the bar.

He sat at his desk, she sat at hers, on the other side of the room. "Okay, okay, we can get through this", he said, trying to keep himself calm. "On your computer, pull up our business reports, and look for any anomilies." On their respective computers, Charles and Cynthia went through 29 years of business reports, stopping for the occasional snack break from Helga. "Charles", Cynthia began, walking over to him, "Start from March of '96, and look at every two months- the same amount has been taken out each time. If I've added my figures correctly, we've lost almost-" "Almost $750 million to these guys", he finished, rising. "We're in deep trouble here, Cynthia. Our company has sold government secrets to war-locked countries, and we're just finding out about this. I can't think of any way out of this mess, besides faking our own death, and burning down the company for the insurance money." Instantly, Cynthia's eyes lit up. "We are _not_ burning down the company, or faking our deaths. We are going to jail, Cynthia." Lighting a cigarette, and placing it atop it's holder, she smiled, "I have a better idea; we hide away, lock up my small fortune, and work from home, while we figure this whole mess out." "I, I don't think that's a good idea, Cynthia. Before long, we'll be wanted by the FBI, and then it'll be all over; we'll be shamed, lose everything, then forced to rot in jail for the rest of our lives. I'm going to bed." Leaving Cynthia sitting at her desk, he went upstairs, got into his bed, and went fast asleep.

In the middle of the night, Charles was shaken awake by his ex wife, who was in a state of shock. "Charles, I just got word from a source, that the investigation was a few hours ago, and we are going to jail. I can't go to jail, Charles! Do you know what they'd do to me in there?" Jumping up, he threw some clothes into a suitcase, told Helga that he was leaving for a few days, and he and Cynthia hopped in his car, and sped down the highway. "Now, we just have to get to the ATM at the country club, get a few thousand out, and lay low for awhile", he mumbled, flying down the back roads. When they arrived, he took $50,000 from the machine, and pointed the car towards the seaport town of Bluewater Ridge. "We'll hide out in Bluewater for awhile, until this mess gets sorted out. I'll let some of my cop connections know what's up, and hopefully they'll hide us", he said, hopping on the expressway.

Meanwhile, back at the Jonson estate, Helga was visited by a pair of men in black suits, who continuously flashed FBI badges. "Ma'am, we were wondering if you knew where Mr. Jonson, and Mrs. Campanella were at", the first man, named Mr. Smith, asked. Adjusting her grip on the front door, she answered, "They must've left sometime in the night. They told me nothing. Their phones are not on, and I have no way of tracking them." In the back of her mind, Helga's conscience was yelling at her to confess, but she knew any problem that her bosses caused, they could easily clean it up with a bribe.

Back in Bluewater Village, Charles and Cynthia were walking out of the police station with police chief Derrick Smith leading the way. "Charles, if you hadn't donated that large sum of money", he began, helping them into their car, "we never would've gotten that second station built. I pulled some strings, and got you guys a fair sized house on Broad Street. Three story, pink and white, can't miss it." Giving them a wave, he went back inside, as they drove off. 8395 Broad Street, which featured a Victorian home, had a freshly cut lawn, two car garage, and small pool around back. Unlocking the door, and walking inside, Cynthia was already unhappy. "It's too small, Charles", she complained. "Let's just use some of our cash, and get a nice hotel on the beach." "And risk someone recognizing us, and getting wrongfully imprisoned? I think not. Now, I'll go to the market, while you go have a dip in the pool. I'll get our lawyer on the phone in the morning, and we can start working this mess out." "You forget I don't have any clothes, Charles." "Fine, then watch tv or somthing; I'll stop by the boutique as well."

With Charles gone, Cynthia turned on the 24 inch television, a large step down from the 87 inch she had in her bedroom at Richardson Castle. The news was on, and the headline that kept flashing read 'JONSON FAMILY MISSING', with a file photo of Charles and his ex wife in the corner. The news anchor, Sally Sanchez, looked into the camera, and read from her teleprompter, "Yes, ladies and gentleman, Charles Jonson and Cynthia Campanella are both missing. Just a few moments ago, we recieved word that their company, Jonson Oil, Inc., is currently under investigation, for selling government secrets to war torn nations. " Horrified, Cynthia switched off the set, and picked up the house phone on the coffee table. "Hello, Marco? It's Cynthia. No, I can't tell you what happened", she whispered, even though she was alone. "Just, I have to lie low for awhile; can I be in one of your shoots? I can? Good. I'm in Bluewater. You're at the beach? See you in a bit." She hung up the phone, and walked the short trip to the beach.

Marco Spinner was only the top fashion photographer for Pleasantview, and if you knew Marco, you knew everyone. Having met her at a party years back, he loved her blunt attitude, and deemed her his new best friend. On the beach, surrounded by foreign models, crouched Marco, photographing a young woman straddling a surf board. When he noticed Cynthia, he dropped his camera, and gave her a big hug. "You girls see this?", he said, framing Cynthia's face and body, "_this_ is somthing that you girls will _never_ achieve: statuesque status. This woman is what all of you should want to look like someday. No go, leave my prescence!"

With all the models gone, he escorted Cynthia over the cabana that he used during shots. "Now, Cynthia, my muse, my darling", he cooed, pouring her a scotch, "what can I do for you?" And so, she poured out her story, every last little detail, watching his face for any show of emotion, which never came. Finally, when she finished, Marco pulled a slip of paper from out of his pocket. "So, we're going back into that business, I see. It's been a long time; sure you haven't lost your touch?" Pulling a pistol out of her purse, she traced the engraving on the handle slowly. "Well", she said, after finishing off her scotch, "we'' just have to see."

Ending his photo shoot early, Marco carried Cynthia to his house located in the mountains that surrounded the city on the southern side. Tucked away, nobody usually heard the goings on of Spinner, and if they did, it was best not to question it. Beneath his photographer exterior, Marco was also an amateur hit man, specializing in the wealthy. "This place hasn't changed a bit!", Cynthia beamed, stepping inside the living room. "Same furniture, same wallpaper, same everything; timeless elegance." With a smile, Marco flung a bowie knife straight at her head. Using hardly any effort, she ducked out of the way, caught the blade in midair, and flung at right back at him. Clapping, he mused, "Well, there's no doubt in my mind now, that you still got it."

In most basements, one might usually expect a number of things; a gameroom, that a family enjoys on weekends; an office, that the working couple share; or even just a storage area for the Christmas decorations. Marco's basement, was anything but normal. Transformed into a shooting range, the walls were lined with different types of firearms, not a single one registered anywhere. "I like the ivory wallpaper", Cynthia sniffed, heading back into the living room. Her cellular phone rang, and she ushered Marco to be quiet. "Hello?", she answered, quietly putting her handgun onto the coffee table, "Oh, hello, Charles. Where am I, you ask? I'm, um, I am, out for a jog. I'll be home shortly. Bye!" With a look, Marco ushered her back into his car, and dropped her off a block away from her new home. "Call me later", he whispered, then took off down the road.


End file.
